‘You shouldna’ be doing this, ken,’ he grumbled. ‘Polis or no polis.’
‘We’ve had this conversation, pal,’ the detective told him. ‘Now bugger off before I arrange for you to be transferred to checking tax discs in Muirhouse.’ He opened the back door for Aileen, as Bob heaved the case into the boot.
‘This is good of you,’ the DCC said. ‘It’s Saturday, after all.’
‘No problem. We’re having a barbie later; Louise and Lauren are getting ready for it, and Spencer’s looking after his kid brother.’
‘How is your daughter? I haven’t seen her for a while.’
‘Growing. Difficult stage. Puberty and such. Missing her mum, even though she and Lou get on great.’
‘I’ve been there with Alex, remember. Don’t worry, it’s like shedding a chrysalis. She’ll be a butterfly any day now.’ He buckled his seat-belt and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Permission to talk shop, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘If I have permission to sleep,’ Aileen answered.
Skinner stayed silent as McIlhenney manoeuvred the vehicle into the constant traffic and made his way through the series of roundabouts and junctions that led to the main road. ‘How’s Stallings?’ he asked, once they were on course for Gullane.
‘She’s brilliant. She’s a real acquisition. It’s no wonder the Met were sticky about approving her transfer. Jack McGurk’s coming into his own as well; they make a really good team. Mario and I have both been impressed by the way they’ve handled the Dean investigation.’
‘We still haven’t charged anyone, though.’
‘There’s Weekes. We’ve got him.’
‘But not for the murder.’
‘Not yet. The fiscal felt he couldn’t do that, given the lack of hard evidence. We’ve done him for perverting justice.’
‘Where is he now? On remand in Saughton?’
‘No. Frankie Birtles asked for bail. We agreed, with the usual conditions.’
‘You can prove he was at the scene, can’t you?’
‘Yes, and he admits it. But that’s as far as it goes. He says he didn’t kill her and as yet we’ve got no hard evidence that says he did. When we heard about the Spanish incident . . .’
‘I might argue that the fiscal could have ignored that, since it was a thousand miles out of his jurisdiction.’
‘But could you really, and expect him to agree with you?’
Skinner shook his head. ‘Not really. That reminds me, did you get my message, the one I left yesterday?’
‘Yes, and acted on it. Becky spoke to one of the guys in the local army-cadet training team. He told her that the kids are made familiar with firearms, as part of their training. They’re taught to dismantle them, then reassemble them from their component parts. Davis Colledge was very good at it, apparently. As for converting a starting pistol, the soldier told her that any idiot could do that.’
‘And this boy is not an idiot.’ The DCC frowned. ‘Neil, on that subject, there’s something I have to tell you.’
‘About being at Murrayfield Golf Club when Sugar was killed? Andy gave me a heads-up on that. What time did you get there?’
‘About eight o’clock. Had coffee and a couple of bacon rolls, hit some practice balls then teed off at ten past nine.’
‘And you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary?’
‘Neil!’
‘Sorry. I suppose you’d better dictate something and give it to Stallings to put in the murder book, just for the record. But . . . if you were there, how come your name didn’t show up when we checked the names of the people who played that morning?’
‘Block booking. It wouldn’t show. In theory it leaves a bit of a hole in your witness list, but I reckon the Law Society will vouch for everyone who was there.’
‘Yes, I suppose . . .’ He broke off in mid-sentence as his mobile sounded. ‘Yes?’ he said.
A new voice came from the car’s small Bluetooth speaker. ‘Superintendent McIlhenney?’
‘It better be.’
‘It’s DC Haddock here, sir. I’m in the office and I’ve just had a call from the uniform people out in West Edinburgh. There’s trouble at Weekes’s place.’
‘What sort of trouble, Sauce?’
‘They didn’t say, sir. Just that there’s been an incident. I called DI Stallings at home, sir. She and DS Wilding are heading out there, but she asked me to let you know.’
‘Thanks, lad. Keep me informed.’
McIlhenney pressed a button to kill the call, then glanced at Skinner. ‘Weekes lives up at South Bughtlin Road,’ he said. ‘That’s only a couple of miles from here. Want to take a look?’
The DCC glanced over his shoulder. Aileen was sound asleep. ‘On balance,’ he said, ‘I rather think not.’
Sixty-three
Theo Weekes was in the doorway of his terraced house when Stallings drew up outside. He was wearing a vest and boxer shorts, and his brown skin was blotched with sweat; a line of blood ran down his left cheek, from the corner of his eye. A uniformed woman constable stood in his way, blocking the path, although he towered over her. A police traffic car was parked on the other side of the street; there was a figure in the back, his face buried in his hands, and a second officer, a portly, middle-aged sergeant, stood by the driver’s door. Apart from the small gathering, South Bughtlin Road was quiet, with only two neighbours curious enough to stand and watch the scene.
‘Wait in the car if you want,’ the inspector told Detective Sergeant Ray Wilding.
‘Not on your life,’ said her partner. ‘The guy looks as if he could be ready for trouble. If he kicks off, two women and the fat boy might not be enough.’
‘Okay, but just back me up. Don’t get involved unless I ask you to.’
She led the way to Weekes’s door. ‘Inside,’ she snapped at him. ‘No’ while he’s still here.’ The reply was a snarl.
‘You do what I tell you, Theo,’ said Stallings, evenly, ‘or you’re on your way to the cells and I’m on my way to the sheriff to have your bail revoked.’
He glared down at her. ‘It might be worth it,’ he muttered.
Wilding took half a pace forward. ‘I hear you’re tough with women,’ he said. ‘You threaten my girlfriend, and I’ll fucking bury you, right in your own front garden. Now get inside, like she says.’
The man looked at him, weighing him up. For a moment, it seemed that he might take the reckless course, until inherent cowardice asserted itself. He shrank into himself, turned and stepped back into his hallway. The two detectives followed him. ‘Sorry, love,’ the sergeant whispered to Stallings. ‘I couldn’t take the chance of him taking a swing at you.’
‘I wish he had,’ she whispered, turning her right arm to show him the extendable baton she had hidden there. ‘I’d have had his nuts for paperweights. I’m good with this thing,’ she smiled, ‘and don’t you forget it.’
She turned to Weekes. ‘The call I had said that the traffic car drove by as you were thumping a bloke in the street. Let’s have your story, but it had better be good, otherwise I’ll let them outside charge you with assault and hold you for court on Monday morning.’
‘What was I supposed to do?’ he protested. ‘The bell rang, Ah opened the door and he hit me.’ He pointed to his eye. ‘Look! I’m fuckin’ bleeding.’
‘How many times?’
‘What?’
‘How many times did he hit you?’
‘Just the once.’
Stallings pointed to a dark, circular bruise in the middle of his forehead. ‘Then where did you get that?’ she asked.
‘That was . . .’ For a second Weekes’s eyes flashed, but he stopped himself short. ‘That was something else.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Ask McGurk,’ he growled.
‘I will, Theo, don’t you worry. But let’s get back to this situation. You opened the door and this man stuck one on you. Did he say anything first, or did he get straight down to business?’
‘Don’t remember.’
‘Please. You might be a shit but you’re not an idiot. Did he say anything?’
Weekes sighed impatiently. ‘He said something about needing to talk to me. I told him I wasn’t interested. Told him to go away. That was when he hit me.’
‘As a result of which, you, a police officer trained to restrain and control, laid into him with both fists, until you were restrained yourself by the two officers in the traffic car. Suppose they hadn’t turned up when they did?’
‘I’d have let him go.’
‘Maybe,’ said the inspector, ‘but in what condition? Look at me, Theo, not at the carpet.’ She waited until his eyes met hers. ‘That’s better. I have one more question, and you’d better give me the right answer. Do you want to make a complaint of assault against the man in the car?’
Weekes held his breath for a second or two. ‘No,’ he replied.
‘That’s what I wanted to hear; best if this doesn’t go any further, most of all for you. Do you want medical attention for that cut?’
‘No. It’s nothing, just a nick.’
‘If you’re sure. Tell me, are your parents still around, or do you have any other family where you could go for a while?’
‘Nah. Ma mother moved back to Barbados after my dad died. I’ve got a sister, but she’s in Canada. Anyway, I’m no’ leaving here, and you cannae force me either.’
‘I’m not trying to. I thought it might be better for you, that’s all.’
‘Kind of you,’ he sneered. ‘You really are looking after me, you and McGurk.’
‘You’d better believe it. Word to the wise, though. I noticed a spyglass in your front door. Maybe you should use it next time the bell rings. We’re off now. Keep your head down.’
‘House arrest, is it? Can I no’ even go for a pint?’
‘Don’t be silly. If you know somewhere that’ll serve you, carry on. All I’m saying is that you can’t afford any more disturbances.’ She glanced at Wilding. ‘Come on, Ray. We’re done here.’
Outside in the street, she stopped on the pavement. ‘What did you think of him?’ she asked.
‘I’ve met him before,’ Wilding told her. ‘I was a DC at Torphichen and he was a rookie. Cocky bastard; he thought he was a hard man, but the rest of us had him down as a poser. I doubt if he killed your girl. I don’t see him having the bottle.’
‘That’s my reading too.’ She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait here for a minute, love. I need to speak to the man in the car before we go.’ She trotted across the street and slipped into the back seat of the patrol vehicle.
‘John,’ she began, ‘how are you?’
Sugar Dean’s father turned towards her. His left cheek was swollen and there was a red smear under his nose. ‘I’m fine, Inspector,’ he replied. ‘Humiliated, but unhurt. I just wish I’d . . .’
‘What? Left him a bloody heap on his doorstep?’
‘Something like that.’
‘He’s thirty years younger than you.’
‘I keep myself fit. Fifty-eight’s not old, you know. I’ve never been a fighting man, you understand, but I’d hoped that when it really mattered I’d have been up to the task. We’re all Lennox Lewis in our imagination.’
‘Was that why you came here, to give him a thumping?’
‘No, it really wasn’t. I wanted to talk to him, to ask him what had happened with my daughter.’
‘John, the fiscal may still charge this man with her murder.’
Dean stared at her. ‘Do you know, that thought never occurred to me? I saw what was in the press, and I wanted to ask him about it, about what had happened to Sugar. That was what I said to him when he opened the door. I asked if I could come in for a chat. I told him I needed to talk about my daughter, about her death. Did he tell you what he said?’
‘He told us his story.’
‘Did he tell you that he said to me that Sugar had got him into enough fucking trouble and that he wasn’t fucking interested in talking about, and here I quote directly, “the cock-sucking little bitch”? That’s when the red mist came down. That’s when I hit him.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ Stallings murmured sincerely. ‘Trouble is, it was still the wrong thing to do. Mind you, John,’ she continued, ‘Weekes doesn’t want to make a complaint against you, but on the basis of what the uniformed officers actually saw, that is, several unanswered blows, they could charge him with assault and breach of the peace.’
‘Would it help Sugar?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Ask them not to.’
‘I will, but in return, I’ll ask you to do something for me. Stay away from this man. I’ve seen too many fathers like you in my career, and I’ll tell you something, with authority. He has no sort of comfort to offer you.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Dean, ‘but the thing that scares me most is this: I never thought I’d find myself wanting to see someone dead.’
Sixty-four
‘So, son, what did you think of your first baseball game?’
Even with the jerkiness of the web-cam image, James Andrew Skinner could be seen to give serious thought to the question. ‘It’s all right, Dad,’ he replied, when he was ready. ‘But it goes on for a long time, and sometimes it’s . . . slow.’
‘Did you understand what was happening?’
‘Yes, that’s easy. We play it at school sometimes, only we call it rounders. It’s a girls’ game, really.’
‘Did you tell Armando that?’
‘Yes. He laughed.’
‘I’m not surprised. Have you decided which team you support?’
‘Yes, the Red Sox. They’re from Boston,’ he added.
‘Not the Yankees?’
‘No. Everybody was supporting them; the Red Sox didn’t have anybody supporting them so I did.’
‘That was pretty good of you.’
‘Armando says he’s going to take me to Boston to see a home game.’
‘What about Mark?’
‘I don’t like baseball,’ said Bob’s older son. ‘I’d sooner watch paint dry.’
‘And did you tell Armando that?’
‘No. That wouldn’t have been polite. I told Mum I didn’t want to go again, and she explained to him. He’s going to take me to the Metropolitan Museum instead.’
‘What about Seonaid? Where’s he going to take her?’
‘Me, me, me!’ squealed the youngest of the three children on the monitor screen.
‘That’s your theme song, lass.’ Her father chuckled.
‘He and Mum are taking all of us to the children’s zoo in Central Park.’
‘And we’re going to ride in a horse and carriage,’ James Andrew added.
‘Indeed? When you do, look out for the bucket.’
‘What bucket?’
‘The one tied under the horse’s tail.’
‘Why do they tie a bucket under the horse’s tail?’
‘You’ll find out.’
‘Pops!’ said a voice from behind him. ‘What the hell are you telling him?’
‘Alex!’ Jazz yelled, as she pulled over another seat and took her place in front of the camera.
Although she spoiled her young siblings in equal measure, there was a bond between James Andrew and his adult half-sister that touched their father every time he saw them together. ‘You lot catch up,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to you in a couple of days.’ He ruffled Alex’s hair as he stood. She smiled and slapped his hand away.
Aileen was waiting in the kitchen. ‘They’re late,’ she said.
Bob glanced at his watch; it showed one forty. ‘Only ten minutes; you know what the by-pass can be like. Is Alexis on her own?’ he asked. ‘Or is her companion lurking somewhere?’
‘No, she’s alone. And that’s what he is, you know, a companion, nothing more. He’s beefcake, that’s all, like the boy in that old Diet Coke ad.’
‘Beefcake.’ He laughed. ‘There’s a term from the past. How do you categorise me?’<
br />
‘You, my darling, are the thinking woman’s hunk. Alex is too bright for DC Montell. He may have his uses, but she’s a woman who needs intellectual stimulation as well.’
As she spoke, a buzzer sounded. Bob stepped across to a small video screen set in the wall, near the kitchen door, and pressed a button below it. Through the window, Aileen saw the heavy wooden gate at the end of the driveway swing open on its pivot. Tyres crunched on the gravel as a metallic blue Ford Mondeo approached the house. It drew to a halt beside Alex’s sports car and Andy Martin stepped out.
‘Hey there,’ his host greeted him from the doorway. ‘Where are your girls?’
‘I’m sorry, Bob. Karen chucked her breakfast; the morning sickness is tough on her. She sends her apologies, but she didn’t fancy a long drive. The wee one can get a bit fractious in the car, so we decided it was best if she stayed at home too.’ He nodded to Aileen as she appeared from the hall. ‘Afternoon, First Minister,’ he said. ‘You both look the better for your holiday.’
‘Just as well,’ she replied, ‘for the big blue boxes have started to arrive. I had my first delivery this morning.’
‘Is that your car?’ Martin looked wistfully at the sleek two-seater. ‘My days for those are over . . . for the foreseeable future at any rate.’
‘No, mine’s a conventional saloon, and it’s in the garage alongside Bob’s. That’s . . .’
‘Mine,’ said Alex, from the doorway. ‘Hi, Andy.’ She came forward and kissed him on the cheek, then patted the lapel of his navy blue blazer. ‘You’re looking very distinguished. What happened to the old leather jacket?’
‘It got ripped. It was never the same after the repair. Still in the wardrobe, though.’
‘Come on in,’ said Bob. ‘Alex, you’re staying for lunch?’
‘I don’t want to impose,’ his daughter protested. ‘I drove down to say hello, that’s all . . . and to apologise for fielding a substitute yesterday.’
‘Neil told me why. No problem, it gave us a chance to catch up.
And now, DCC Martin, you and I can do the same. Let’s go round to the front. We can talk while I fire up the barbie.’ He led the way through the house, to a paved patio area, where a big gas barbecue stood on a complicated stand, with towels and utensils hanging from it. ‘There’s a wee fridge in the garden room,’ he said. ‘Grab a Corona for me and whatever you want for yourself; there’s soft in there as well.’
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